


A True Scotsman

by Hrafnsvaengr



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abject Silliness, Basically this is just crack, Deaf Clint Barton, First Kiss, Getting Together, Humour, Kilts, M/M, Natasha has deadly thighs, Shenanigans, Steve's a little shit, Steve's ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6362878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrafnsvaengr/pseuds/Hrafnsvaengr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers go to a banquet, but the real question is much more important: Is Captain America a true Scotsman?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A True Scotsman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AvaKelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/gifts).



> Give all thanks for this to Ava. It's all their fault and I'm not to blame for this utter nonsense.

The party was some big thing held by the Scotch-American Society in a ballroom. Not a conference centre which the hotel just labelled “ballroom” so they could charge three times the price. An actual ballroom. Parquet floors, crystal chandeliers, and the double staircase leading down from the mezzanine to the dancefloor carpeted in plush red rugs. They were showing their appreciation, with a little financial help from the British Embassy, to the Avengers for saving their society’s building during the attack on Manhattan, although which building that was was something the Avengers never could quite figure out.

Along with the invitations, each member of the team had been given a kilt, hand-woven by members of the SAS in the colours that each of them was known for. The only one who was less than pleased with the gaudy tartan result was Bruce, although he was still wearing it like everyone else.

Tony was in the middle of his third joke about the hideous purple and green kilt when Steve climbed into the limo and sat in the last empty seat. “Wait a minute,” Tony interrupted himself, “Isn’t it against the law for you to be wearing Scottish clothes? I thought they’d declared you a national monument or something?”

Steve shook his head, smiling obligingly. Before he could retort, Tony tried a different tack, “So if Captain America is wearing a kilt, is he a true Scotsman?”

With a small shrug, Steve replied, “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Tony shut up quickly, turning to the computer he’d brought with him despite strict instructions that he didn’t work at the party. Clint sniggered quietly from where he sat. Clint had been a good friend to Steve in the days since the fall of SHIELD. The rest of the team was around, of course, but Thor was busy on Asgard, Tony was too busy getting excited about his next super-gizmo, Bruce was too busy helping Tony, and Natasha was never the most approachable member of the team.

So in the weeks since, it had been one Clint Barton who’d been his friend. They didn’t do much, really, mostly spending time watching tv or movies, occasionally Clint would play a videogame and Steve would watch. The games didn’t really interest him as much is at was just nice to watch and relax. Sometimes he'd sketch some scene or character in the games, but mostly he just hung out.

The rest of the short drive was spent in relative silence. Part way through, Clint had pulled a phone out of the heavy leather purse…thing they all wore at the front of their kilts. It was called a sporran, so Steve had learnt when he was researching how to wear the damn thing, and it was indeed useful both as a small pocket and to ensure there were fewer moments like Marilyn Monroe had in that movie Clint and he had watched. No one needed the Avengers publicly exposing themselves because of a subway grate.

So, with Tony occupied with his tablet computer and Clint busy texting with someone or other, the trip ended up being rather peaceful, all in all.

***

Clint knew, as soon as they had made the bet, that Tony would recruit JARVIS to do some computer wizardry, and sure enough, not even ten minutes into the party, while dapper men in sharp tuxedos were still passing around hors d’œuvres and champagne, Tony came over to him, looking triumphant.

“You might as well give up now, Merida. JARVIS is analysing the way Spangles’ kilt moves to work out what's underneath.” He said it quickly, as if getting your robot butler to analyse friends’ clothing was a perfectly normal way to begin a conversation. Clint thought for a moment, ready to disagree; however, on second thought, with their friends, it probably was.

Clint was just about to respond when JARVIS’ voice came from the tablet, “I'm sorry to interrupt Sirs, but the analysis is complete.”

Tony grinned in satisfaction, “I'll even let you withdraw your bet now, because I'm a nice guy.”

Clint shrugged and JARVIS continued, “I'm sorry sir, but all my analysis was able to determine is that there is a 47% chance of there being nothing… Underneath, if Sir will excuse the phrase.”

Tony's smug grin stuttered then foundered entirely, “So, what you're saying is –”

“Yes, Sir. The only conclusion I’ve been able to reach is that a conclusion cannot be reached with any degree of certainty.” JARVIS sounded the slightest bit ashamed, though whether at his failure or the task he had been asked to perform, Clint wasn't sure. “Shall I continue to attempt –”

Tony shook his head, “No, no, thank you JARVIS, it was always a long shot.”

Clint raised an eyebrow and smirked at him, “One of these days, you'll realise that technology isn't always the answer.”

A scoff, “Of course you'd say that; you're still in the stone age. Technology is  _ always _ the answer, Katniss,” Tony said.

***

Clint's first attempt was, to say the least, rather crude. He tried to make it look accidental, he really did. As Steve passed, Clint used one of the circulating maîtres d’ to overbalance himself, falling flailingly onto the intricately inlaid floor.

As he fell, Clint watched, eagle-eyed, looking for the answer under the red, white, and blue kilt. Nothing. Not nothing as in wearing nothing. No answers. Nothing. Damnit.

Clint looked up at Steve's face as it frowned down at him curiously, “Heh… Good thing I didn't fall worse… It'd sure be awkward if I were banned from the party, huh?” Clint said, looking down to ensure his modesty, if not his dignity, was intact.

Steve nodded faintly as he pulled Clint to his feet, “I suppose it would. Although, who knows, you might make yourself a few new fans.” And just like that, Steve was walking off, drink in hand.

Clint looked over to see Tony's eyebrow arched in the least subtle question Clint could imagine. He shook his head and shrugged in reply. They'd have to try a different tack.

***

During the feast – if pounds and pounds of haggis, mashed potato and turnip masquerading under the indecipherable name of ‘tatties & neeps’, and cock-a-leekie soup  _ was _ a feast – Tony excused himself from the table. It was just after a man brought in the ‘Chieftain’, reciting a long poem to the oversized haggis before slicing it open from end to end, releasing the rich, meaty scent into the hall.

It was only a few minutes before Tony returned, an easy smile on his face. “Sorry about that. Had to deal with a business matter. Something about a surveillance drone going haywire.”

The rest of the Avengers muttered to him, telling him off for leaving an empty seat at the table of honour. It was only the team and the few higher-ups in the SAS who sat at the long table on a dais above the rest of the hall, and it was painfully obvious if one of them left. With a shrug, Tony helped himself to a plateful of the piping hot food and things settled back into the normal rhythm of such events.

Or rather, they settled back for precisely forty-seven seconds, which was how long it took for the relative silence to be broken by a loud buzzing wail.

High above, darting through the doors which lead from the mezzanine out into the hotel lobby, was a small flying helicopter. They all watched the small craft as it buzzed, hovering motionless for a long moment above.

“That can’t be good,” Bruce said, putting down his knife and fork, “This seems bad to you all, right?”

Tony frowned, immediately pulling out a small holographic tablet, “No, this shouldn’t be…”

The table all looked at him in one motion, “Tony,” Steve said, a parental tone creeping into his voice, “What did you do?” He stood up, turning back to the small craft and glaring at it.

“Shh, I’m trying to concentrate.” Tony waved a hand dismissively, tapping rapidly at the tablet.

After a tense moment, the craft buzzed down, swirling around the tables one by one. It made a sharp turn around each one so its nose swept the seated guests sitting or standing, all watching the thing fly by. Finally, it stopped a few feet in front of the table up on the dais then quickly swept across it the same way, nose toward the team, once, twice, then it was rising up and out the doors again like it was fired from a rifle.

The Avengers returned their eyes to Tony in unison. “What did you do?” Steve asked again, sounding like a cross teacher. “And why was that thing scanning us?”

“Scanning? What? No,” Tony waved his hand again, “It wasn’t scanning us.”

“Then what,” Steve asked slowly, “was it doing in here?”

“A field test?” Tony grinned, putting the tablet away into the pocket of his sporran. “It was meant to be taking pictures of the party, you know, capture the moment?”

“So it wasn’t surveilling us?” Bruce asked, “Because that seemed more like a surveillance sweep.”

“Yes, well even geniuses don’t get things right every time, do they?” Tony snapped, sitting down and brushing imaginary crumbs from his kilt.

Steve sighed heavily and sat back down, “Let’s try not to terrify the people throwing us a banquet next time, all right, genius?”

“Sure thing boss.” Tony grinned and watched as the rest of the guests sat back down and the festivities slowly resumed back to their normal joyful timbre.

After a few minutes, Clint looked at Tony, catching his attention with a quiet cough. Tony shook his head and Clint grinned in reply.

***

Soon enough, the much diminished platters of food were whisked away and quickly replaced with heaping plates of small cakes and cookies, the centrepiece of each being a circle of delicate wedges of shortbread dusted with a thin layer of fine crystalline sugar.

On the whole, despite the earlier incident, the banquet had been a joyful affair full of bagpipes, poetry in Scots, even a few raucous songs sung by the Society members in Gaelic. It was mid-way through the desserts when Clint quietly disappeared. No one seemed to notice the archer’s absence, or at least, they didn’t say anything if they did. By now, they all were used to his disappearances which, despite his broad stature and long legs, were frequently silent enough to avoid notice.

It was those same long legs and broad shoulders that Clint was, at that same moment, trying to slip between the pairs of legs under the table. He was hidden from sight by the large Scottish flag which was doing service as a tablecloth, but that didn’t help him sneak along on his back, worming his way backwards down the table.

He quickly discovered another problem which made his mission more difficult. Under the table was, strangely enough, rather dark, given the lack of lighting. It was extremely difficult to tell one kilt from another in the near-blackness of the small space.

He had to hope his count was correct, counting along four pairs of legs to a kilt which seemed to be in red and a dark blue. That would be Steve’s, right? Yeah, it had to be.

Clint fumbled with his cell phone, pulling it out of his sporran so he could use the light of its screen to settle the matter once and for all. He didn’t notice the legs in the kilt moving until they had darted out, pulling him by his head until he was trapped, a pair of vice-grip thighs holding his neck still.

In his hand, his phone buzzed. A text.

Natasha: Why are you trying to look up my skirt?  
Natasha: I know you’re bored, but really, Clint?

Clint texted back, trying to muffle his slightly choked breathing.

Clint: im not   
Clint: i just wanted to settle a bet

Natasha laughed above, someone must have told a joke. A reply buzzed on his phone a moment later.

Natasha: Go sit down. Do not pass go. Do not try to peek at Steve.  
Natasha: We really need to find you a girlfriend or boyfriend or something, Clint  
Natasha: Seriously.

The murderous thighs loosened slowly and Clint thumped quietly onto the floor, catching his breath for a moment before he made the crawl of shame back to his seat where he reappeared just as unnoticed as he had disappeared. Except for by Natasha.

***

Once the desserts had exhausted themselves, the plates running dry quickly despite the abundance, the guests stood and the tables were quickly cleared and moved away, leaving the floor wide open for people to mill about. Shortly, a small group of musicians came in, a fiddler, a woman energetically playing a small hand drum, and another dour woman playing a guitar all accompanied a boisterously bearded man who sang joyfully. The music seemed to all be Scottish folk-music, and although Tony didn’t recognise it, the style was unmistakable.

The Avengers didn’t dance. Or rather, the Avengers with the exception of Wade didn’t dance, and what Wade was doing would probably better be called an extended seizure than dancing. No one could quite pinpoint when Deadpool had arrived, especially as he hadn’t been invited, but he seemed to be behaving. For the moment at least. 

Tony had left while the tables were being cleared, announcing that he had to use the little superheroes’ room. He didn’t have to use the little superheroes’ room.

His return wasn’t immediately noticed, although the small buzzing remote-controlled car which darted out on the dancefloor was. As it drove around, people began to look for the driver and few failed to see the digital camera crudely duct taped to the roof of the car. It was pointing upward.

Everyone was careful to hold their skirts and kilts close so the car didn’t get a private view as it darted under people’s legs, buzzing and whirring alarmingly on every turn. Finally, an old woman with a cane wound up like she was getting ready to hit a homerun in the World Series and smacked the car, causing it to fly across the room, nearly hitting the grinning Tony in the head as it crunched and shattered against the wall.

The hall went silent as all heads turned to watch Tony sheepishly put the remote control joystick down on a chair and slink out of the room.

After the room dissolved from tense silence into nervous tittering about the antics, Clint walked around the room, looking for a target. He wasn’t stealing, he was just borrowing. He knew precisely which purse he snuck the hand mirror out of. It was the blue one with the green ribbon. Or the grey ribbon. Whichever.

He reached the Slayer of the Car who was carefully looking over her cane, inspecting it for scratches to the dark wood inflicted by the small buzzing vehicle. “Excuse me, Miss?”

The old woman looked up at him, squinting for a moment before she smiled, “You! You’re that Iron Fist fellow, aren’t you?”

Clint thought about it for a few seconds before he shrugged, “Sure. For a pretty lady like you, I’ll be the Iron Fist.” He grinned at her in a way that he thought…hoped was charming, “I don’t suppose you could do me a favour, could you?”

She narrowed her eyes, “That depends entirely on the favour, young man.”

“I need to borrow your cane.”

She inhaled, her eyebrows knitting together in a deep frown. “Well,” she exhaled heavily through her nose, “All right. Only for a few moments. And it better not come back damaged! I’ll tell everyone that the Iron Fist broke an old woman’s favourite cane!”

Clint nodded, “Absolutely, I’ll be back in just a second.” He grabbed the cane, quickly flipping it over in his hand so he was holding the bottom end. With dental floss he filched from another purse, he tied the small hand mirror to the cane.

As he walked over to where Bruce and Steve were chatting, Clint turned the cane back around so he could use the mirror to peek under the Captain’s kilt. Just enough to catch a flash of anything underneath should there be anything. It’s not like he wanted to find out, right? He just wanted to win the bet.

Unfortunately, Bruce saw a bright reflection flash off the mirror and looked pointedly from Clint to the mirror and back. He shook his head slowly, looking at Clint as though he were an idiot. He probably was.

With a defeated air, Clint turned to find the old woman behind him staring at the gerry-rigged mirror in shock. “Young man! I’ll make sure the rest of the Society hears about this! The Iron Fist will never be allowed back into one of our banquets!” She snatched back the cane and shook the mirror loose, “Never again, you hear me!”

Clint slipped away before she could begin to announce her crusade to bring down the Iron Fist any louder. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

***

As the kilted members of the SAS all paired up and began to dance, Clint noticed Steve pulling away from a group conversing on the outskirts of the dancefloor. He was heading toward the restrooms, down a narrow winding hallway which jutted off one side of the room.

Clint followed, trying his best to look nonchalant about it, although he still lost sight of Steve as he rounded the corner which lead to the three restroom doors. He sped up slightly and caught Steve rounding the corner into the men’s room which had been helpfully relabelled for the event to read Laddies. The other two were similarly labelled relabelled from “Women” and “Unisex” to read “Lassies” and “Awbody”.

When Clint entered the washroom, he saw Steve standing in front of the mirror, poking at his still-immaculate hair. With an effort, Clint tried to look casual as he went to the second sink and washed his hands, waiting for Steve to do… something.

Steve raised an eyebrow at Clint in the mirror and grinned lopsidedly. With what Clint was absolutely sure was  _ definitely not _ a wink, Steve turned and went to the stall, hand pausing on the door for a moment. “If you really want to know, you should probably buy me dinner first.”

Clint stared at the closed door for a moment, his jaw gaping slightly. Had… No. Surely not. He was joking, obviously. Clint frowned and left the washroom, shaking the water off his hands.

He stood in the hallway, just inside the curve of its meander around the back rooms behind the ballroom, invisible from either the washrooms or the festivities, his own almost-private place for the moment. As he thought, Clint’s frown set in a guilty line. He had to come clean to Steve. It was unfair what Tony and he were doing. Steve was his friend, and he was treating him like this? No. He’d give the game away and apologise.

As he decided, Steve came through the bathroom door, raising an eyebrow at Clint.

“Hey Steve…” Clint began sheepishly at the same time as Steve started to speak.

“So, are you buying me that dinner?” asked Steve with a small smirk on his face.

“I just wanted to--” Clint continued, then stopped in surprise, “Wait, you were serious?”

Steve shrugged, leaning against the wall across from him. “Wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

“Yes!” Clint said happily, though his frown caught up with him an instant later, “I mean….  Yes, but first I have to apologise for--”

“That bet you and Tony made?” Steve’s eyebrow rose, the smirk unchanging. At Clint’s dumbfounded expression, Steve laughed, “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. I knew about it since you first threw yourself at my feet.”

Clint swallowed then coughed, embarrassed, “Oh...that obvious, huh?”

Another shrug, “Doesn’t matter. I’m still waiting to hear about this dinner you agreed to, though.” Steve took a step forward as he spoke, only a foot or so from Clint. “You never told me where we’re going. I don’t put out for just any old restaurant, you know.”

Clint swallowed and opened his mouth to respond when he found Steve’s warm lips on his own. The Captain hadn’t shaved for a while and his obscenely-square jaw was covered in a prickly stubble that rasped against Clint’s own. As they kissed, lips sliding across one another, teeth gripping lightly, Steve’s hands found their way to Clint’s hips and he pulled him closer.

Slowly, Steve drew away, moving his lips across Clint’s jaw until he reached his earlobe and tugged lightly with his teeth. “We’ll talk about that dinner later,” Steve said as he stepped back, turning on his foot and striding down the hall.

He stopped a few paces away, looking over his shoulder at Clint and winking. With a flick of his hand, he lifted the hem of his kilt at the back, giving Clint an instant’s view of the Captain’s round backside.

***

Clint spent the remainder of the evening in a haze, trying to convince himself that he had indeed seen under the Captain’s kilt. He’d seen Steve’s ass. After Steve had kissed him. What. The futz.

They went home in the same limo they’d driven in, all of them a bit tipsy--well, all of them that felt the effects of alcohol, that is.

Tony nudged Clint with his elbow a little harder than necessary, “You get the info?” he asked, slurring ever so slightly. Perhaps he was a little beyond tipsy after all.

Clint looked at Steve, chatting quietly with Natasha, and turned back to Tony. He shook his head. “No, nothing.”

Tony shrugged. He shifted in his seat and addressed Steve, “Hey! O Captain, my Captain!” he called out, interrupting their conversation, “You never told me whether you’re a true Scotsman as well as a true American!”

Steve turned his attention to Tony, glanced at Clint, then said blandly, “Ask Clint.” The little shit smirked.

Tony rounded on Clint, frowning, “But you said…” the realisation took a few seconds to penetrate the fine boozy haze, “You saw the Captain’s Captain!” Tony shouted, the rest of the limo falling instantly silent.

Clint shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.

Before he could respond, Tony exclaimed “You saw it! I knew you two were...” he made a rude gesture with an index finger of one hand and a loose fist of the other, “You know...”

Clint shook his head, but Tony continued, “So, Clint, is the Captain more of an Antman or an Incredible Hulk?”

Clint sighed as Steve broke in, “Don’t worry. It’s just perfect to fire his arrow.”

Tony guffawed, “I guess Clint’s the one getting  _ rogered _ tonight!”

Another heavy sigh. At this rate, Clint was going to end up just sighing himself to death.

“Hey Clint!” Tony continued, “Be sure Cap brings his shield!  _ Protection _ is important, you know.”

Steve held up a placating hand, “All right, I think that’s enough, Tony. We get--”

Tony shook his head, “You’ll have to tell us how  _ super _ his  _ soldier _ really is!”

Steve rolled his eyes and looked at Clint. After a moment, he knocked on the glass separating them from the driver. “Here please.”

They pulled over and Steve opened the door. As he and Clint stepped out, Tony shouted after them, “Wait! Wait! I have a great one about seeing stars and stripes!”

Steve shook his head, “Good night, Tony,” he called back and closed the door.

After a moment the limo pulled away again, leaving Clint and Steve standing on the sidewalk. Clint’s face wash blush-reddened, but he still smiled slightly. “So…” he said quietly.

Steve grinned, “How about we skip dinner and have coffee and pie? I know a great diner. Green’s Deli. It’s just a few blocks away.”

Clint nodded and they began walking, their footfalls against the pavement slowly turning into shakey conversation. By the time they reached Green’s Deli, they were laughing easily with one another. And the Deli was apparently a hair salon. That, or the deli had closed down in 1972. They agreed that the latter was more likely.

***

Clint’s eyes opened slowly and he saw the red numbers of his alarmclock blinking silently. 06:07. It was too damned early. Too damned bright for this early too. As he reached to turn the clock aside, moving his aids, the heavy arm around him shifted. Steve pulled him close, muttering inaudibly against his neck.

With a small smile, Clint decided the clock was fine where it was. He settled back, aligning himself, bare back to bare chest, against Steve’s broad shape behind him. It was true. Captain America was indeed a true Scotsman, wearing nothing under his kilt. He also apparently wore nothing to bed. Clint grinned and fell back into an easy sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This was beta'd by both Ava and ApostateRevolutionary. All hail the betas, saviours of shitty first drafts!


End file.
